


Came Back With Ripped Out Pages

by syrupwit



Series: mcu venom [2]
Category: Marvel Cinematic Universe, Venom (Movie 2018)
Genre: Canon-Typical Violence, Implied/Referenced Alcohol Abuse/Alcoholism, M/M, No Underage Sex, Not Avengers: Endgame (Movie) Compliant, Venom-Typical Cannibalism
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-08
Updated: 2019-04-26
Packaged: 2020-01-06 15:25:41
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 9,407
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18391133
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/syrupwit/pseuds/syrupwit
Summary: Kidnapping Mr. Stark isn't the worst idea Venom has had, but it's certainly not the best either.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Title from "[Violence](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=4BSfKcuNpH0)" by Low.

_**You wanted this**_ , says Venom.

"No," Peter whispers. Mr. Stark looks crumpled, like a shirt hung up to dry wrong. There's a trickle of blood at his temple, a bruise forming over his eye. "No, I didn't want this at all."

Peter crouches to examine him. Mr. Stark is alive, so that's something. His heartbeat is faint, his breath shallow. Where's the suit? He's in casual clothes. He isn't even wearing shoes. It's like he -- like he didn't think he was in danger -- like he thought he could trust whoever --

Peter flops onto his side and vomits.

 _ **You wanted him**_ , says Venom. _**So I got him for you. A gift**_.

"You're insane," says Peter, wiping bile from his lips. Venom curls with hurt and hides.

He takes a moment to consider the situation. The rooftop where Venom dumped them is cold and dusty, littered with bird shit and random debris. His hoodie is trashed; his jeans are stiff with dried blood and other substances he prefers not to dwell on. His phone is missing. His webshooters are -- okay, there's one of them. Leave it to _fucking_ Venom to lose only one webshooter. If he wants to get down and get Mr. Stark to a hospital, he'll most likely need Venom's help.

 _ **We will not go to the hospital**_ , Venom asserts.

"Fuck you." Peter moves closer to Mr. Stark, mentally calculating the least risky route down the building. He feels shaky and sick, but he could probably carry Mr. Stark? Probably. Maybe if he webbed him to his back...? No, that's stupid. Venom makes him stupid. Think, Peter.

 _ **We do not NEED the hospital**_ , Venom says.

"He could die," Peter snaps. Mr. Stark's hand is cold in his. He's never seen the man this still, this small. He has to focus on being angry at Venom or he'll lose it.

 _ **He will not die**_ , says Venom. Before Peter can stop it, it flows out of his hand right into Mr. Stark. Peter shouts with rage and fear, jerks away, but Venom is too strong. Black tendrils writhe and vanish.

"No! Get out of him!" Mr. Stark's body spasms, and Peter pulls him into his lap and tries helplessly to hold him still. He can see Venom in there, squirming through Mr. Stark's skin. A vein pulses black near his bruised eye.

He's shaking so hard he doesn't notice Venom come back. Then: _**I fixed it**_.

"What?" says Peter, numb.

Mr. Stark coughs.

 _ **I fixed it**_ , Venom repeats. It sounds smug. _**No hospital**_.

Mr. Stark cracks an eye open. He frowns. "Kid?"

"You're okay," Peter breathes. He touches Mr. Stark's temple -- the skin is smooth and whole. Mr. Stark's gaze is unfocused, but there's color in his face, and his heartbeat is steady and strong.

"What happened?"

"Mr. Stark, I am so sorry. I swear I can explain, but for now I -- I just need you to hang on." There will be time for detailed apologies later.

"Copy that," Mr. Stark slurs, eyes falling shut.

Then there's the familiar twisting, suffocating sensation of Venom taking the reins, and Peter blacks out.

 

-

 

He wakes up in his dorm at ESU just after sunset. The window is closed, and the room smells unpleasantly musty. A rank, gritty taste in the back of his throat indicates that Venom has fed recently, though on what -- or who -- he can't tell.

Peter relaxes when he sees Mr. Stark on the bed. He doesn't look crumpled now, more like slightly foxed. His sleeping face is peaceful. Peter sits up from his resting place on the couch and winces at the crunching noise his jeans make. He's got a change of clothes, but he'd prefer to shower first. Once again, he thanks whatever deity intervened to get him single studio accommodations in his sophomore year.

Speaking of -- god, his room is a mess. He cracks the window and spends some time sorting through the dirty clothes and empty food containers littering his floor. There are spills he doesn't recognize, broken bottles he nearly steps in, and a whole kit of medical supplies dumped behind the couch. What a waste. He stuffs most of it in the trash and heads to the shower.

Venom surfaces while Peter is scrubbing his hair. Something generically nasty and very, very sticky has wadded such a big clump of hair together that he's thinking about cutting it off.

_**Do you like your gift?** _

"What you did was wrong, Venom. You can't just go around kidnapping people."

_**I did not kidnap. He was willing to go.** _

"Because you were wearing my face." Peter squirts a glob of shampoo into his hand and attacks his scalp with renewed fervor. "Bet things would've gone a lot differently if you'd showed up as a big freaking goo monster." Venom stretches from Peter's hip to inspect his bath products.

_**Regardless. He is with us now. What is this? It looks tasty.** _

"He's going home tonight. And hey, that's mine!" But Venom has already streaked away with the fancy soap bar.

Peter snips off the remaining sticky stuff in his hair, towels off, and goes to check on Mr. Stark. He's fast asleep. Yeah, he looks a lot better, although he's still visibly suffering the aftereffects of Venom's trip through his insides. Peter finds himself staring. When did Mr. Stark start graying? There are new lines around his eyes, new scars on his arms and hands. Peter used to think he knew all the scar stories. He has the urge to touch Mr. Stark's face, and feels an old ache in his chest.

It's been a while since he last spent time alone with Mr. Stark. At least, any time more substantial than a quick chat about suit upgrades or a few stolen minutes between the New Avengers meetings. He knows that was how Mr. Stark wanted it. On an intellectual level, Peter gets it; Mr. Stark intended to mentor Peter, not befriend him. He wanted Peter to stand on his own two feet -- swing on his own two hands? -- and it was never going to happen if Mr. Stark was always around.

Which he had been, right after Thanos. He had hovered -- sometimes literally. And Peter... Peter had loved it.

Guilt interrupts his trip down memory lane.

He reaches out to lightly nudge Mr. Stark's shoulder. Mr. Stark twitches. Peter nudges again, more insistently, and Mr. Stark grunts and rolls over.

"Hey," he whispers. "It's Peter. Uh, Peter Parker."

"Hello Peter Parker," says Mr. Stark to the mattress.

"Sir. You were hurt, you've been resting, and I think it would be good if you could wash off and change. Are you hungry?"

"Whose blood is this," says Mr. Stark. Oh no, his sheets are stained.

"I don't know?" Peter tries, and winces. "Uh, we should really -- I'll run a bath for you."

When he returns, Mr. Stark is shucking off his pants. Peter quickly turns his attention to his dresser. He selects a t-shirt and sweatpants that look like they should fit. Should he get clean underwear too? No, that's weird. No, it's weirder to de-facto make him go commando. Does he have any non-superhero-print underwear? Dammit.

"Here," he says, shoving the clothes and an old pair of plaid boxers into Mr. Stark's arms. "Towels are in the bathroom. Do you want me to call Happy? I can order pizza--"

"Slow down, kid." Mr. Stark grabs Peter's arm to steady himself, leaning like he's drunk. "Why don't you tell me what's going on?" He meets Peter's gaze with bloodshot eyes.

Peter has lied more in the past handful of weeks than in the rest of his life put together, but he still can't lie to Mr. Stark. "I, uh," he fumbles. "There's kind of. An alien situation?"

 

-

 

It takes a long time to tell the story, even with the stuff Peter omits or brushes over. It's hard to concentrate when Mr. Stark keeps almost passing out in the tub.

"M fine, 'm fine," Mr. Stark mumbles, brushing away Peter's concern. His eyelids drift shut. He looks younger like this, softer, his hair dark from the water. Peter added body wash when the bath was filling; a layer of deflating bubbles preserves his modesty. Peter can smell the body wash on his skin.

Two years ago, the mere notion of the present scenario would have found Peter red-faced and hyper-conscious, unable to make eye contact or speak without stammering. He's had a few wet dreams that started along similar lines. Right now, though, he's far too anxious to be aroused.

"This Venom thing," Mr. Stark says, eyes closed. "It's a parasite, basically? It possesses people and then eats them?"

"It's more of a symbiotic relationship," Peter explains, aware that Venom is listening and could take offense. "Venom's species, the Klyntar, their goal is to find compatible individuals to bond with. If one finds the right host, they can meld into a super-being. If it's a bad match, though, the symbiote can end up killing its host. But they're all different, like -- some are more violent than others, some need a lot more to eat -- and yeah, they can eat people. And lots of other things. Venom ate a traffic cone the other day."

"A traffic cone."

"I wouldn't let it eat this crossing guard, so." In Peter's head, Venom cackles.

"Huh." With effort, Mr. Stark pulls himself into a sitting position. The water line is just under his nipples; Peter looks away. "Was it trying to eat me, or...?"

"Oh, no! Venom was bringing you to me. It thought it was doing me a favor. Have I already said I'm really sorry about that?"  
  
"Couple of times, yeah." There's a glint of humor in Mr. Stark's voice beneath the exhaustion.  
  
"Well. I am so, _so_ sorry. Sir, I know I probably belong in prison, and I know there's nothing I can do to make up for this--"  
  
"Sure there is. You can come back to the compound with me."

Peter gapes at him. "What?"

"Clearly you've been dealing with this alone for too long. C'mon, it's the safest place to be. We'll run some tests, see if we can get you stable without killing either of you." Mr. Stark shoots him a grimace just short of a smile. "You don't have to do everything by yourself, Pete."

Peter is going to cry. "I've already caused you too much trouble, sir."

"You haven't caused me trouble in years," says Mr. Stark quietly. Then: "You were saying something about pizza?"

 

-

 

It shouldn't feel domestic, yet it does: Peter, Mr. Stark, and the deranged alien symbiote who nearly killed and then healed Mr. Stark not 24 hours ago, sitting in Peter's dorm, wearing Peter's clothes, eating late night pizza. 

Mr. Stark goes green when he first smells the pizza, but after the first tentative bites he tears into it like a starving animal. Spending time with Venom does that to people. Peter himself is eating way faster than he should, has to remind himself to slow down. Conversation is limited to grunts, offers to refill each others' water glasses, and the occasional "Venom! No!" Although Venom has a whole anchovy pie to itself, it keeps stealing Peter's toppings.

Mr. Stark takes Venom's presence in stride. Peter sees him watch its teeth warily when they emerge, but he doesn't startle when an inky tendril creeps over to inspect a half-eaten slice. He just says, "Nuh-uh," and shoves the slice in his mouth.

Once Peter's not sure he can take another bite, his nervous energy settles into fatigue. Venom retreats to huddle under his arm, humming with contentment. He smothers a yawn under a napkin.

"How fast can you pack?" says Mr. Stark.

"Huh?"

"I'm calling a car. You think you can gather everything you need in the next ten minutes?"

Peter thinks of his classes, one of which he's on the border of failing. Peter has never failed a class in his life. "Give me twenty?"

"Fifteen." Mr. Stark heads out to use the landline in the hallway.

Peter emails his professors, claiming a family emergency. It's unlikely they'll buy it given the number of sick days he's taken recently, but at least it's something. At some point, shoving clothes and textbooks and electronics into his suitcase, he wonders when this had gotten so out of control.

He writes May an email too. She thinks he's just been busy with school. He's not sure what to tell her, so he alludes to internship alumni business and hopes she'll get it.

His friends... He hasn't spoken with Ned or MJ in weeks. They're all in college now, so maybe it doesn't matter.

The car arrives. It's a new driver, not Happy. Peter hoists his luggage into the trunk and gets into the backseat. He can't stop yawning. Venom is asleep, a little ball of _wrong_ stuck somewhere in his ribcage. He hears Mr. Stark talking to the driver in a low voice.

Too much time passes, or maybe not enough time, and Mr. Stark is sliding in. He buckles Peter's seatbelt for him -- oh, whoops -- and squeezes Peter's shoulder comfortingly. Peter forgets not to lean into the touch.

Mr. Stark is sitting right next to him, and he's a lot warmer than the leather seat. Peter turns his head against Mr. Stark's arm. He's suddenly so, so tired.

"Here," says Mr. Stark, and he arranges them so Peter can rest his head against Mr. Stark's chest, with his arm around Peter's back, his hand at the base of Peter's skull. His fingers card through Peter's hair. "Go to sleep."

It's hard to feel anything but safe when Mr. Stark is holding him like this. Peter tells the guilt and dread warring deep inside him to duke it out between themselves, and sleeps.

 

-

 

He wakes up to screaming.

 

-

 

It's hit or miss. Sometimes Peter stays conscious, if powerless, when Venom is in control; at other, more worrying times, he blacks out completely. Still other times, it's patchy, like a radio signal that comes in and out. This is apparently one of those last times.

"--will not hesitate to do anything in my power to free him from you. Do you understand?"

_**You would tear us apart. YOU WOULD RIP HIM APART FROM ME.** _

"Not sure if you've noticed, buddy, but the only thing you've done for Peter is fuck up his life."

 _ **I protect him. I make him better.**_ Peter feels the frisson of Venom's doubt trickle through his brain.

"Maybe you should let him out, then, and hear what he thinks."

Venom is agitated, writhing in the thing where Mr. Stark trapped them. _**No. He is my host. We are one.**_

"Peter doesn't need you. You need him. He had a life before you, and I'm going to make sure he has a life after you."

_**LIAR! You betrayed us. We will escape, and your precious Peter will sever your oversized head from your puny, worthless body. See how YOU like to be separated.** _

"Yeah, no," says Mr. Stark, and presses a button.

The pain is excruciating. Peter has been flung against walls, been trapped under an entire building, felt his body vaporize molecule by molecule, but he could not have imagined something like this. The sound is a physical force, a wave that crashes again and again. Venom roars in agony, and Peter can hear his own echoing yell.

 _ **I WILL EAT YOU PIECE BY PIECE**_ , Venom snarls, once the ringing in their ears has quieted enough to think. _**Starting with your liver**_.

Mr. Stark presses the button again.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Playing fast and loose with various bits of canon here.
> 
> What am I doing? YOU TELL ME.

The next time Peter wakes up, Venom is gone.

Well, not _gone_ gone. A glass box houses a shifting, rippling thing like a living oil slick. Peter watches it track frantically around the edges, as if circling enough times it will help it find a crack, an escape. He's probably imagining the panicked strain to its movement, and the way it pauses for a fraction of an instant when he moves closer before redoubling its efforts.

"Mr. Stark, you didn't have to do this."

"Sure I didn't. But I did." Mr. Stark, looking much heartier, claps him on the back. He smells like clean sweat and the same mild yet expensive cologne he's been using for a decade. "How are you feeling?"

Truth is, Peter isn't sure. Part of him feels pure, uncomplicated relief -- his body is his again, his mind is quiet. Another part feels something that he identifies dimly as grief. There are other emotions lurking in his brain that he doesn't know how to name yet.

He goes for the safe option. "My head kinda hurts, but otherwise I'm good."

"Great," Mr. Stark says. "How does dinner sound? Or breakfast, actually. You were out for almost a day, I bet you're starving." He doesn’t mention whether anyone knows he was missing, or why.

The compound has expanded since the last time Peter was here. They added a couple of wings and repurposed an old one. Mr. Stark talks him through the changes on their way to the cafeteria, which has moved.

“--and there’s the new aerial dome, we hold antigravity drills on Wednesdays. Really livens up the week. I’m assuming you’re already familiar with the aquatic complex--”

It’s easier than Peter would have expected to fall back into the rhythm of this place. He doesn’t recognize most of the people, but they pass a few faces he knows. There’s Ant-Man, scrubbing vigorously at a mustard stain on his shirt. There’s Colonel Rhodes, deep in conversation with a spandex-clad girl around Peter’s age. There’s Ms. Potts, who covers up her double-take with a cordial “Hi, Peter.” She did something new with her hair; it looks nice.

“Hi, Ms. Potts,” says Peter, a moment too late. Her heels are already clicking down the hall.

“Are you and she--” he asks Mr. Stark. Mr. Stark shakes his head and smiles a little.

“Pepper and I are good. We’re not together, but we’re good.”

“Well, that’s good. Not that it’s _good_ good, you know, but I mean, that’s. Good.”

Mr. Stark gives him one of those flat looks that means he’s laughing inside.

The cafeteria has alien food now. “Oh my god,” says Peter, staring up at the menu. There’s Asgardian-style mead, that root thing that Ms. Nebula likes, and a host of unfamiliar dishes ranging from the opaque to the mundane-sounding to the really, really weird.

“Take it from me, Parker,” says Mr. Stark, who has somehow acquired one of his infamous green smoothies. “Stick to the steak and eggs.”

Peter orders the yaro root too, to spite him.

When he’s surrounded by all this, Venom seems like a bad dream. There’s no one to complain that his steak tastes dead, no one to provide unwanted speculation on the nutritional content of his fellow diners. No one to spook at a loud noise and burst out through one of the floor-length windows. He laughs at Mr. Stark’s jokes, responds to his observations, smiles halfheartedly at the strangers Mr. Stark introduces him to. As always, he can’t help but bask in Mr. Stark’s attention. But he knows there’s something changed about him, and he knows--

“Tony,” says a person in dark glasses, appearing at Mr. Stark’s elbow like Peter didn’t hear him coming halfway across the room. "We have a situation."

 

 

-

 

 

An entire city block has been cordoned off. A reporter provides sanitized and nonspecific commentary over shots of SWAT teams preparing to enter a department store. On a different, secure channel, clips from the department store security tape play.

The command center fills rapidly with spectators. They jostle for sight of the screen, commenting to each other in hushed tones. They clump in cliques or stand alone with crossed arms. Mr. Stark confers with a pair of headset-bearing agents.

Peter alone feels rooted, like he can't move. That seething, melting thing from the security footage, its face a ghoulish parody of the Spider-Man mask, is _familiar_.

(What's red and white and black all over?)

He searches his memory. The night Venom took him -- had there been another symbiote?

(What remains are fragments. A rainy night, a dark alley. A flash in the sky, a flash of teeth or lightning, the gleam of a knife or the gleam of Venom's skin. He'd been tired already, bone-soaked and bone-tired, on edge for reasons he couldn't place.)

(He hadn't realized what was happening until it was too late.)

On the secure channel, the red and black symbiote attacks a security guard, snapping his neck with a twist of its arm. The reporter on the news channel is advising residents to stay calm and lock their doors.

"Did you know about this?" murmurs Mr. Stark, leaning close.

"No, but Venom might. I could ask--"

Mr. Stark interrupts him with a harsh whisper. "I'm not making you do that."

"You might have to, sir."

"We'll see," says Mr. Stark grimly, and moves away.

The symbiote tosses one wailing customer through a jewelry display and slams another on top of a circular clothes rack. A third unlucky bystander receives a spike in the top of the head, but funnily enough doesn’t appear to collapse. The symbiote turns its attention to another security guard, who, though shaking, has drawn a gun.

“Tell me she’s not going to,” says a person somewhere to Peter’s left.

The guard fires. A rictus grin splits the symbiote’s face. It lunges, and half the guard’s body disappears down its throat.

So that’s what it looks like, Peter thinks. His last meal weighs down his belly, heavy with guilt for sins he can’t remember.

The symbiote rears back, dripping gore. Its red skin parts, and a man’s face emerges: pale and freckled, smiling with bloody teeth. The unabashed delight in his expression is the last thing the camera records before the security tape suddenly fizzles out.

Meanwhile, on the news feed, SWAT officers stream into the building. Peter has a sinking feeling that they won’t be coming out.

 

 

-

 

 

“Alright, folks.” Mr. Stark claps his hands. “What we’re dealing with tonight is called a Klyntar. Weaknesses are fire and sound. This shouldn’t be a complicated mission, but don’t let the thing get too close to you. It _will_ take over your brain and treat your body like an inverted sock puppet. Questions?”

Peter’s head buzzes. He doesn’t know the team members Mr. Stark assembled, but a couple of them greet him or clap him on the back as they pass. If he weren’t such a mess already, he would be super embarrassed.

(Ned would know everyone’s name. MJ would know their names and have nicknames picked out too, but she’d be too busy laughing at Peter to share.)

He comes up to Mr. Stark afterward. Mr. Stark sees what he’s going to say before he says it.

“For once in your life, kid, stay out of it.”

“But--”

“Peter, listen to me.” Mr. Stark plants both hands on Peter’s shoulders. “You’re not ready for action, and I’m not going to put you there. I’ve already lost you once. Forgive me if I’m less than keen on losing you again.”

“That was kind of a while ago, sir.”

“Still.” Mr. Stark is closer now. Peter doesn’t expect it when he folds him in a hug. “It made an impression.” His voice vibrates through his ribcage, his beard scratching Peter’s cheek, and Peter needs to disengage, _now_.

“Just promise that you’ll call me in if you need me,” he says, stepping back. He misses Mr. Stark’s warmth as soon as it’s gone.

“In the unlikely event that things head so _spectacularly_ far south that we need to enlist the recently traumatized college freshman--”

“ _Sophomore_ \--”

“As I was saying. Sure, we’ll call you. Don’t wait up.” The corner of Mr. Stark’s mouth turns up, and then he’s striding away.

 

 

-

 

 

Peter runs three laps around the main building, but unease still itches under his skin. Everyone else seems to have a job to do, even the people who aren’t out fighting the symbiote. It highlights how powerless he feels.

He sends May a snapshot of himself posing in front of the cafeteria menu, with the caption: _Can u believe they serve alien food now? Let me know if u want some!_  He sends the same photo to Ned, and spends way too long debating whether to text MJ. (He doesn’t.)

Torn between panic and boredom, he methodically investigates the new wings. He in fact was not familiar with the aquatic complex, but it looks cool; there’s an area that mimics deep sea diving conditions, and a big, secluded aquarium that seems more like a conservation project than anything else. The aerial dome is closed -- guess he’ll have to check back on Wednesday. His sixteen-year-old self would have been over the moon about this.

The next section is mostly offices, all of which are inaccessible to him. He gets lost doubling back. His brain is getting tired faster than his body, so he jogs a couple more laps to pass the time.

He migrates back to the cafeteria and chooses a table. He doesn’t remember falling asleep, but it happens somewhere between replying to May’s text (a string of nonsensical emojis) and a series of nightmares where it’s his face under the red and black symbiote’s skin, his mouth smeared with Mr. Stark’s blood.

 

 

-

  


“Peter, wake up.”

He gasps and springs up from his seat, nearly clocking Ms. Potts, who evades the blow with practiced grace.

“I’m so sorry, I was having a bad dream--”

“You’re fine,” she says. Her smile doesn’t reach her eyes. “We’re going to the command center now. You might want to come with.”

It’s still dark out, but everyone is awake and freaking out. The team hasn’t returned from the mission, Peter gathers groggily. He hastens to keep up with Ms. Potts. Someone is saying things about hostages.

The command center display streams recorded footage from the Mark Whatever It Is Now. There’s a group of civilians… hitting each other with kitchen appliances? There’s an energy blast from the suit. There’s one of the people whose name Peter doesn’t know, a guy in his late twenties or so, pulling the civilians apart. There’s the symbiote, suddenly, thrusting a spike through his head. He stumbles, goes limp for a moment, then charges at the camera.

When the feed resumes, the suit has changed perspective. It’s watching Mr. Stark, outside of it. The symbiote withdraws a fine tendril from his neck, and he buckles to the floor. In the background, the civilians are still fighting.

Everyone in the room is so busy, they don’t notice Peter slip away.

 

 

-

 

 

Peter anticipated resistance, but the lab’s main entrance responds to his old access code. He cuts F.R.I.D.A.Y. off mid-greeting, shuts down the lights, and disables the surveillance protocols. At each step, he thinks an alarm is going to sound, but none does. Why did Mr. Stark maintain Peter’s lab privileges? Did he forget, or is there something else going on?

Corridors feed into corridors, curving and identical. When did the lab get so big? Maybe it was a bad call to turn off the lights. Peter focuses on searching for that tiny spot of _wrongness_ , that subtle quality of Venom’s that sneaks just past the Spidey-sense.

At last, he finds the right room. Again, his old access codes still work. He wonders again if it was an oversight, or -- no, that’s ridiculous.

It is a lonely prison. Blank walls, fluorescent lights that blink on when Peter enters. Peter stares at the glass box. Venom is bunched in one corner, looking for all the world like an overgrown, particularly goopy slime mold. He feels pity, and blocks it with the memory of that red and black symbiote’s bloody jaws. He feels fear, and reminds himself what he's here for.

"This is stupid," Peter mutters. He presses his fingers to the glass near Venom. For a moment, there's nothing, and then:

**_you came back_ **

Peter startles and almost trips over his own feet. Was that...?

He grits his teeth and touches the glass again.

**_you came back you came back_ **

Venom flows to mirror his hand. Its voice seems to come from underwater or somewhere deeper, wavery and faint. This must be some remnant of the bond. He doesn't have too much experience with telepathy, give or take a few encounters with Mantis and the X-Men -- wait, does Dr. Strange count? -- but that sounds right. Wow, this really is crazy.

"Yeah, it's me," he says. "I need your help."

Venom's excited flurry of _host-safe-here-bond_ abruptly halts. Sulkiness tints their connection.

**_no_ **

"Please. There's no one else I can ask."

**_ask your tiny mate_ **

Peter doesn't bother to correct it. "I can't." He concentrates on the image of Mr. Stark as he'd been in the broadcast, pale and immobile. Venom recognizes the red and black symbiote, but doesn't offer commentary.

**_HA_ **

**_why do you want this weak thing this little insect_ **

**_can't even protect itself_ **

"I didn't come to argue about that, Venom. It's -- I don't expect you to understand."

**_what is there to understand_ **

**_you don't want us but you want THIS_ **

**_pathetic_ **

Peter doesn't have time for this discussion. "Look. I'm sorry that Mr. Stark hurt you and put you in a cage. If I could go back and make things different, I would. But it had to happen sometime. The situation was out of control! What we had -- it wasn't healthy. You didn't even ask before you took me, dude."

Venom, mulish and hurt, projects a memory: the two of them ascending a skyscraper at breakneck pace, Peter laughing in exhilaration.

"I'm not saying it was all bad. But, like Mr. Stark said, I had a life before you. There's stuff I need to do that I can't do when you're with me. And you deserve better than a host who resents you."

He didn't know it was true before he said it. Venom really does deserve better. The symbiote may not have come equipped with human-typical morality, but it's not (figuratively) heartless or incapable of change. Someone else could be patient with it, could teach it, could learn how to work as a team instead of provoking endless power clashes. Someone else _could_ be a healthy host for Venom.

The times Venom took total control of his body, Peter realizes, were almost always correlated with serious divergences between their wills. A panic reflex. Venom wanted the bond so badly that it lied to itself to keep it.

Emotions swirl wildly in Venom's part of their connection. Peter, still grappling with his insight, intervenes.

"Venom. The past doesn't matter right now. My -- Mr. Stark isn't the only one in danger from that other symbiote. If I don't stop it soon, a whole lot of innocent people are going to die. You can stay here or come with me, but I'm going no matter what. What do you say?"

He waits.

A minute passes like a lifetime. Finally, Venom responds.

**_after this you will owe us twelve pizzas_ **

As he shatters the glass with one well-aimed punch, Peter finds himself smiling.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> It grew a fourth chapter.

_The day when things with Mr. Stark change is the week before Peter's ESU matriculation._

_Peter and May both feel so weird about college that they’re driving each other crazy. Peter needs to get out of the apartment and talk to someone else, someone who doesn’t worry aloud about the nutritional content of cafeteria food or ask every five minutes if he’s sure they have laundry facilities in the residence hall. And May needs a little time to herself, too._

_Peter’s friends are little help. Ned, already packed off to Berkeley, communicates solely in selfies and photos of semi-idyllic California scenes: barefoot students playing hacky sack, sushi burritos at a food truck, the sun setting over the East Bay. MJ, stressing hardcore about her impending move to New England, is more amenable to biting Peter’s head off than discussing their mutual anxieties. Even Flash, who turned into 50% less of an asshole mid-senior year and addresses Peter by his actual name most of the time, is unavailable._

_Peter tries Happy’s cell and learns he’s on vacation. Thus, he finds himself scaling a high-rise luxury apartment building at four in the afternoon to check on the one other person he wants to see -- the person he wants to see all the time, if he’s honest._

_A retinal scan unlocks Mr. Stark’s balcony door. The living room is empty; the kitchen is in some disarray, but lacking inhabitants. The refrigerator is open, so Peter closes it. For all the days Mr. Stark spends in the city, he doesn’t keep a lot of food here._

_If people were in the bedrooms, their doors would be closed. The light above the mini-lab door glows red: vacant. Peter tiptoes down the hall to the third bedroom, nicknamed “the study.”_

_The air is sharp and dense with alcohol. Whiskey, probably. Peter’s never been fond of the smell. Mr. Stark smells like it more and more lately, but it’s not been Peter’s place to point that out._

_“Hello?” he says, and carefully turns the doorknob._

_Mr. Stark is slumped over a datapad, a half-full snifter at his elbow. On the cabinet behind him is a large, expensive-looking bottle of scotch that is almost empty. The sun is high in the sky outside, but it feels like night in this room._

_It takes a second for Mr. Stark to notice Peter. For a moment, he looks like he’s seen a ghost. Then he laughs, low and ugly._

_“Your timing’s off. Check back in an hour, I’ll be passed out then.”_

_“Sir?”_

_“Why won’t you leave me alone?”_

_“I -- What?”_

_Mr. Stark takes a gulp of whiskey. “I got him back. Alive. Why are you here?”_

_He must be mistaking Peter for someone else. “It’s me, sir, it’s Peter. I came to see if maybe I could hang out for a while? But it looks like you’re busy, so--”_

_“Would you cut the bullshit? I know what you’re up to.” Mr. Stark lurches to his feet. “You’re going to hang around blushing and making doe eyes until I let my guard down, and then the same thing that always happens is going to happen.”_

_“Sir, I think there’s something I don’t--”_

_“Bull. Shit.” Mr. Stark is up in his face now, sweat and whiskey breath, using the sarcastic tone he gets when he’s truly angry. “Tell me. Are you a ghost? A demon? Some kind of shapeshifting alien hired specifically to fuck with me? Because if it’s the last one, you’d better get a raise. It’s working.”_

_Peter has no idea how to respond. Mr. Stark searches his face for something, and his eyes harden._

_He grabs Peter’s arm. Peter jolts forward a bit, restraining his impulse to jerk out of the too-tight grip. They’re both breathing too hard._

_Mr. Stark stares at his hand on Peter’s arm._

_"Parker?" he says, that strange intensity evaporating._

_Peter says, "What’s going on?"_

_Mr. Stark forces a smile, cracks a joke about pink elephants, and kicks Peter out of his apartment._

_Peter doesn’t see him again for three months._

_When he does, Mr. Stark will barely look at him, and the things he’s dedicated so much effort to -- his GPA, the latest web fluid formula, busting an undergraduate drug ring -- feel like so much lint in the residence hall dryer, damp and insubstantial and inappropriately perfumed._

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Venom doesn't like flying.

"But you love heights," Peter says.

**_Different._ **

"Aw, is it the suit?" It's an older model, equipped with high-speed flight and advanced armor, that had proven too bulky for regular use. Mr. Stark had whipped it up in one frenzied weekend after Peter miscalculated a jump and broke his arm, the spring before he went to college.

 **_I could get us there faster._ ** Venom imagines racing through the wilderness below them, bounding from treetop to treetop while the moon slips west.

"No you couldn't."

**_Could so._ **

"Could not."

**_Could so!_ **

"Whatever, Venom. I'd get tired."

**_Wimp._ **

"Just being real."

**_A real wimp._ **

All too soon, the city lights approach. Peter starts their descent, honing in on the block where the action is.

They land on the roof of the department store. Peter deactivates the suit, which shrinks into an uncomfortably heavy wristwatch (another reason he'd rejected it). Venom mentally heaves a sigh of relief.

**_Leave it. Don't need it._ **

"I'm keeping it."

They break a window on the top floor to infiltrate the women’s clothing department. The lights are out and it's eerily quiet. The full-length mirrors are creepy in the dark, not to mention the mannequins. Peter’s especially unfond of the headless ones.

Venom grows oddly cagey as they progress through the store. Peter expects it will demand that he let it take over or just go faster, but it clams up, bunching around his waist like a belt. He’s not feeling so hot either. Somehow, objectively knowing something is wrong but not being able to subjectively perceive it is worse than if the Spidey-sense were on high alert. That red and black symbiote could be anywhere.

They reach the well of escalators in the center of the store. Peter attaches to the wall and climbs down. The first and second floors are clear from here. He catches sight of movement in the corner -- no, that’s just his reflection in the cosmetics department mirrors. Man, those are freaky too. He’s never liked the cosmetics department; the mix of perfumes messes with his senses.

There _is_ movement in the middle of the first floor. Oh, shit. This is one of those department stores that has a childcare center, a fenced enclosure with beanbags and bead mazes and stuff. Peter cranes his neck --

Mr. Stark is in there.

Peter scurries to where the wall meets the first floor ceiling. He flips and crawls upside down to a better vantage point, then lowers himself by a web.

Did the other symbiote just…  pile a bunch of bodies in the enclosure? All or most of the people -- including Mr. Stark -- are alive but unmoving. Doesn't look like there are any kids, thankfully. He considers the logistics of transporting them one by one to the roof. Could they take two at once? Three, webbed together?

 ** _RUN_** **_GO GO GO_**

Venom throws them across the room before Peter can react, landing atop a dishwasher model. A massive red blade bounces off the ceiling where they had been.

"What the heck?" says Peter.

" ** _Venom!_ **" says the red symbiote delightedly, aiming another blade.

 **_Oh no_** , says Venom. Peter dodges just in time.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

So, uh. The other symbiote’s name is Carnage; it can break off bits of itself to use as projectiles, which Venom cannot do; and its host _will not shut the fuck up_. The security footage did not prepare Peter for this. Also, Venom is its spawn-mate (?), who cruelly abandoned it when their ship crashed (?) -- but that's okay, because it led to the fated union (?) of Carnage with its host, who adores it with all his heart and is going to savor the slow and bloody death of Venom's host following the fast and bloody deaths of everyone else in the department store. Peter gathers all of this in about two minutes, most of which he spends dodging projectiles and trying to draw Carnage towards the roof.

Venom is embarrassed.

"Seriously?” Peter hisses, tucking them behind a shoe rack. Carnage laughs maniacally in the distance. “You’re embarrassed of me?"

**_They are the superior match._ **

"Sorry I'm not like forty years old and so edgy I could cut something even when I don't have knife hands."

" ** _All will be chaos!_** " Carnage announces. Peter can see them on the other side of the floor, swinging two huge axe-like blades perilously close to a supporting pillar.

“Dammit,” he sighs. He jumps back into the fray.

Carnage really is a better match, or at least more in sync than Peter and Venom. They meet Venom blow for blow, backing them toward the escalator area. A hand-axe swipe narrowly misses Peter’s nose. This is not good. Peter manages to dance his way around to the other side of the room again, but they're clearly losing. How long can they keep this up?

"Any ideas?" he asks Venom under his breath, mannequins toppling in their wake.

Carnage throws another blade -- no. Carnage shoots out a tentacle. It forces Venom open and wraps around Peter's throat, squeezing, choking.

_**NO.** _

Peter stumbles back, unsure what just happened. He searches for Venom, and -- there it is, grappling with Carnage directly, rippling over their strange skin.

"Venom?"

_**Stay back! Go! Save yourself!** _

"Venom, I can't--"

_**NOW.** _

Peter runs. Carnage is still moving toward him, but he has a slight head start. He ducks behind a menswear display and scrambles into a dressing room.

It's a second of peace, even with the turmoil in Peter's head. Then he notices the fire alarm on the wall directly across from him.

If he pulls the alarm, it will hurt Venom. But if he doesn’t, he has no chance.

"Sorry," Peter whispers, and darts forward.

The effect is not immediate. First the alarm goes off, then Carnage starts to howl, cursing Peter and throwing blades at the ceiling. It's no use; the sound echoes throughout the building.

Outside the dressing room, Carnage falls writhing to the ground. Peter advances, activating the suit. Red goo pulls away from the host’s contorted face. Peter's suit isn’t technically equipped with any kind of firepower, but the blast from the foot jets almost works the same way.

Peter burns the symbiote. Carnage screams and screams.

It's lucky that S.H.I.E.L.D. arrives just as the sprinklers turn on.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Peter hovers by the ambulances while Carnage is led away: the symbiote in an opaque carrier, its host in chains. He’s explained about Venom multiple times to the S.H.I.E.L.D. emergency response team. No one's seen it. Peter tries to tamp down his dread.

He calls May to tell her he's fine. If his voice wobbles, she doesn't comment.

The majority of the hostages and Avengers and SWAT team members are all right, though damp and in some cases concussed. The guy who got a spike through the head is okay. The people who got bent and eaten are not okay. Mr. Stark is conscious, sat upright in a wheelchair. Peter almost thinks better of it, but rushes over to him anyway.

Mr. Stark is engaged in half-hearted discussion with an agent. He stops as soon as he sees Peter. "What the hell are you doing here?"

This isn’t the greeting Peter expected. "Uh. Helping?"

"I specifically told you to stay at the compound."

"You said you'd call me if things went south!"

"And did we call you? No."

"You were going to _die_ , sir."

"I can come back," the agent offers.

"Don’t bother," says Mr. Stark. "This ends now. Do you hear me, Parker? You are finished. Done. No more heroics. Get in the quinjet and turn in your suit. We’ll debrief back at the compound."

Anger flares in Peter’s chest. "No."

"Excuse me?"

"I’m not going back. You can have the suit," Peter divests himself of the wristwatch, "but I don’t take orders from you anymore. I’m not a child or your employee.”

"Careful, kid." Mr. Stark’s eyes are hard.

"I’m nothing but careful around you!" Peter explodes. "I’ve been walking on eggshells since, since -- you know what, sir, I don’t want to have this discussion right now. I’m leaving."

He hears Mr. Stark call after him, but he’s already too far to hear.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

The sun is coming up when Peter finally gets back to his dorm.

The place is a mess but he can't imagine cleaning it. His stuff's still at the compound. He thinks he missed an OChem test.

He falls asleep anyway, too exhausted to deal with any of it.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Twenty-six straight hours of sleep later, regret kicks Peter hard in the face.

"Oh my god, what did I do."

There's only one way to fix this. He has to talk to Mr. Stark… again.

But first, he needs to email his OChem professor.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you to nigushe on Discord for looking part of this over!

Supposing infinite alternate universes, there must be at least one where organic chemistry doesn’t _completely suck_. Unfortunately, Peter doesn’t seem to be in that one. The makeup exam that Professor Warren reluctantly administers takes him almost the entire allotted time to complete, and he’s really not sure how he did.

His remaining professors prove varying degrees of sympathetic. His GPA will take a hit this semester, but academic probation stays a distant rather than imminent possibility. He can make up a class or two this summer if he absolutely has to, assuming that he can afford it.

Peter’s life is weird. A week ago, his biggest concern was keeping a symbiotic alien from eating people, and now he’s stressed about scholarships and his grocery budget.

His last conversation with Mr. Stark burns away in a corner of his mind. Occasionally throughout the day, the figurative smoke gets in his lungs or eyes, and -- okay, stupid analogy, it’s stupid, he feels stupid. This is going to be a big deal. He knows that, no matter what happens when he talks to Mr. Stark this next time, their relationship will change for good, again. That’s why he needs to be sure, secure, before he confronts him. He should probably write a letter or something, maybe sit on it for a few days.

Yeah, no. It’s barely six o’clock that evening before he’s headed to Mr. Stark’s apartment.

This time, he takes the elevator.

 

 

 

-

 

 

Mr. Stark sounded tired when he buzzed Peter up, and he looks worn and resigned when he opens the door. Peter had been about 75% sure that he’d be there in person, but it’s a little shock to his system anyway.

“So, I owe you an apology,” he says without preamble.

“Um,” Peter says, in lieu of one of the multiple opening lines he practiced in his head on the way over. “Hi?”

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Peter sets down his backpack and trails after Mr. Stark to the kitchen. The place doesn’t look too different. Cleaner, maybe. There’s artwork he doesn’t recognize. No alcohol containers in evidence, empty or otherwise.

“Can I get you anything?” Mr. Stark asks.

“No thanks,” says Peter, leaning his elbows on the island.

“Suit yourself.” Mr. Stark fetches some hipster health drink from the fridge and cracks it open. The faint scent of pine needles wafts through the room.

They stand there awkwardly for a moment. Mr. Stark takes a sip of his drink.

“So, I was an ass,” he says. “You’re right. How did you put it? I’m not the boss of you.”

Peter feels his face heat. “I didn’t put it quite like that.”

“Still. I’m not the boss of you. And I am sorry.”

“I’m sorry too. For getting so mad, and for Venom, and for -- everything.”

Mr. Stark examines his drink label. “When will you learn to stop apologizing for things that aren’t your fault?”

“No offense, Mr. Stark, but it seems like I usually just make your life more complicated.”

“Hm. First off, it’s the other way around. Second, have I given the impression that I mind?”

Peter thinks. “Yes?”

“Guess that’s another thing I’ll have to rectify.” Mr. Stark sets down the drink and steps around the kitchen island, so he’s almost but not quite in Peter’s space. “Peter, you have to know -- there’s nothing I’ve done for you that I wouldn’t do again in a heartbeat.”

Half a decade hangs between them, give or take the years spent reversing the snap. Peter is accustomed to not being able to read Mr. Stark’s expression. The man’s had plenty of time to develop a poker face, and maybe more reasons than time. But he looks as sincere as Peter has ever seen him; looks vulnerable, even, receptive, his gaze flicking from Peter’s eyes to his mouth and back again as he reaches to squeeze Peter’s shoulder.

“I.” Peter licks his dry lips. “Me, too.”

“Are we having a moment?” says Mr. Stark. “I think we’re having a moment.”

Peter kisses him.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

Peter feels like he’s drowning. The room doesn’t have enough air. On some level he expected to be pushed away, but the first hesitant, tight-lipped kisses rapidly melted into something else. Now Peter is stripping out of his jeans while Mr. Stark bites his neck and pinches his nipples. It’s, uh, hard; not only is there the distraction of Mr. Stark’s hands roaming his bare torso, his own hands are shaking, and the waistband gets caught on his erection.

“Is this okay?” Mr. Stark asks, and then he’s kneeling.

Peter nods too emphatically. His legs feel overly long, and he’s not sure what to do with his hands. They flutter over Mr. Stark’s shoulders, settle momentarily in Mr. Stark’s hair, clench in fists at Peter’s sides. At least the wall behind his back is solid. He gasps when Mr. Stark takes him in hand.

“God,” says Mr. Stark. He presses his bristly cheek to Peter’s naked hip and closes his eyes, inhaling. His eyelashes are dark against his skin, and he looks --

The puzzle pieces Peter’s tried to assemble, the hints he’s been second-guessing for years, slot immediately and effortlessly into place. Mr. Stark wants this badly, maybe even as badly as he does.

One of his hands goes to Mr. Stark’s hair again. Experimentally, he pets it. Mr. Stark exhales on a groan and sucks the head of Peter’s dick into his mouth.

It turns out he’s good at this, or at least it seems that way to someone with Peter’s lack of experience and massive amount of pent-up desire. He’d be jealous of whoever else got to have it, but he’s too busy trying not to come.

“Stop, stop,” he gasps finally. “I’m going to, uh.”

Mr. Stark pulls off and meets his eyes. “Do you want to? You can have whatever you want.”

Peter stares at him, his flushed face, his messed-up hair, and hitches his hips forward. Mr. Stark’s mouth is barely back on him before he’s coming, vision whiting out. He makes a lot of embarrassing noises, but who cares.

“ _God_ ,” says Mr. Stark again, arm working, and then he’s shuddering against Peter’s legs.

Peter sinks to the floor. Mr. Stark leans against him. They stay there, sharing breath, as close as they can get while still two bodies.

 

 

 

-

 

 

 

At last Mr. Stark says, “We should get cleaned up.”

Mr. Stark goes to one room, and Peter heads to the other.

In the bathroom mirror, he looks wild. His hair is a rat’s nest, his neck and chest dotted with already half-healed bruises. There’s beard burn on his thighs. He splashes water on his face and rinses his sex-stale mouth with couture mouthwash. His clothes feel weird and itchy on his sensitive skin.

When he comes out, Mr. Stark has changed into different clothes and fixed his hair. A hooded jacket -- it’s too fancy to be called a hoodie -- hides the marks Peter left on his skin. He smells like soap, not so much like Peter anymore. If he had sunglasses on, there would be no sign of what they’d done.

Is this the part where he tells Peter that this was a mistake, it can't happen again? Maybe Peter's just like Venom, wanting more from someone than they have to give.

“Hey. Are you crying?”

“No,” Peter lies.

A note of restrained panic enters Mr. Stark’s voice. “Yes you are. Why are you crying?”

“I'm being a wimp.” Peter wipes his eyes and laughs at himself. Mr. Stark definitely looks panicked now, so Peter musters his courage and takes pity on both of them.

“Are you going to freak out and shut me out again? Because I thought we were okay, but then there was sex and I didn't plan for that and -- just, I need to know now, okay.”

Mr. Stark is silent for a moment. Then he covers his eyes and says, “I'm not good at this.”

“This?” Peter tries to hide the tiny edge of hysteria he’s feeling.

“This whole -- everything.” Mr. Stark gestures. “Listen, I can’t promise anything about not freaking out. But I'm not going to shut you out again if I can help it.”

“Okay.” It hurts, but Peter can take it.

“Peter. Look at me.” Peter does. His feelings must show on his face, because Mr. Stark’s expression goes suddenly distraught and he’s pulling Peter into his arms. “I meant I’m the kind of person who freaks out. I love you -- I’m _in_ love with you -- but I’m a mess.”

“I don't care,” Peter says into his neck. Mr. Stark is in love with him. He’s pretty sure that nothing else is going to matter for, like, a century.

“I believe you, and that's part of what's so terrifying about you.”

“I’m terrifying?”

“Yeah, you’re a monster, kid.” Mr. Stark kisses him, light and chaste, and a lump in Peter's chest is lanced.

“I love you too, you know,” he says.

Mr. Stark kisses him again. “I had my suspicions, but it’s good to hear you say it.”

They sit at the kitchen table and drink glasses of water. Mr. Stark offers him some kind of homemade granola bar with alien fruit in it, which is awesome. It’s way after dark by now; Peter is beginning to get drowsy. Mr. Stark keeps finding excuses to touch his hair, which feels way too good.

With effort, Peter finally stands. “I should go home. I’ve got way too many assignments to make up, and my dorm is still basically a crime scene.”

"Okay. Need a ride?"

Peter indicates his webshooters, the suit in his backpack. “Got one.”

“Do you want to--” he starts, at the same time that Mr. Stark says, “Are you doing anything tomorrow night? No, wait, Wednesday. It’ll take a few more days to sort this whole Carnage mess out.”

"I thought Wednesday was antigravity drill day," says Peter, heart in his throat.

“Eh,” says Mr. Stark. “Been meaning to play hooky.”

He kisses Peter once more and then releases him. It doesn’t feel sad, or like goodbye; they’re both smiling when Peter leaves.

As he swings back to his dorm, catching the faint scent of spring flowers beneath the garbage and exhaust, Peter feels for the first time in years that things are going to work out.  


 

 

-

 

 

 

_Meanwhile, or possibly a little bit later..._

It is midnight in Manhattan. Steam rises from a manhole cover. Deep in the sewer, something gurgles.

A cloud passes over the waning moon. A rat races from gutter to dumpster. Distantly, tires screech, and car horns chorus in response. A drunk young stockbroker separates from his peers to vomit all over his expensive shoes.

In the nearby alley, a sinuous shape seeps from shadow to shadow. Does it trickle or slither? Does it glisten with reflected streetlights, or does it absorb the light, a puddle of matte nothingness against the asphalt? Surely no earthly thing can move like that.

The stockbroker nearly walks into an ongoing construction site that has intruded on the sidewalk. A prudent friend pulls him back. Barriers and traffic cones protect the project from the public, while a sign advises pedestrians to choose an upcoming detour.

The dark shape oozes to the street and pauses, as if peering around the corner. The stockbroker’s friend elects to call a rideshare service. Above, the few visible stars twinkle ominously. A blip on the horizon could be a plane or a meteor.

_Thwap!_

“What was that?” The stockbroker interrupts his friend.

A traffic cone skitters toward the alley, halts.

“Damn rats.”

The ride pulls up a minute later, so neither of them notice as the traffic cone is yanked fully into the alley. Darkness pools around it, then swells upward, stretching to envelop the cone with a menacing slurp. Teeth flash, and an implausibly long tongue licks nonexistent lips.

**_Delicious._ **

Overhead, the stars continue to wheel. From its outskirts to its beating heart, the city operates as it intends to, grown and growing like a living thing.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Insert here the title card:
> 
> VENOM WILL RETURN
> 
> PROVIDED SYRUPWIT GETS THEIR BUSINESS TOGETHER WITHIN THE NEXT HOWEVER-LONG
> 
> This is... oh, wow, this is actually the first multichaptered work I've ever finished. It's been a short journey, but a journey nonetheless. Thanks so much for reading! <333 


End file.
